


Aphelion

by everheartings



Series: Asterism [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everheartings/pseuds/everheartings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Catching a star is easy (making it stay is the hard part).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aphelion

**Author's Note:**

> Aphelion-the point in the orbit of planet, asteroid, or comet that is the the furthest from the sun

It’s a strange thing to be home, Grantaire thinks. Nothing’s changed. There’s still the sagging couch and the empty bottles. His telescope and star charts are still piled in the corner. The floor still creaks and the bedroom’s still too cold. Nothing’s changed, but it feels different (maybe it’s the man who sleeps on the couch, scattering stardust across the cushions).

Grantaire leaves his bedroom in a slow, drugged shuffle; he stops in the doorway to the living room, leaning against the door jam. His eyes linger on the sleeping figure on his couch—taking in the way Enjolras’ face presses the curve of his elbow, the way his gold hair spills across the cushions of the couch, how with every breath there’s the faint hint of gold that seems to dapple every surface these days—before his eyes flick over to the mirror leaning against the wall. Grantaire catches his reflection (he thought he took that mirror down days ago) and his mouth tightens.

Burns spread across his ruined face, splashed up his cheek, and around his eye, and across his nose. Burns running up his arms and curling across his hands (he was never was a beautiful creature. This changes nothing). If Grantaire squints and turns his head a certain way maybe, _maybe,_ he sees gold glittering in amongst the ruins.

He swallows, mind drifting back _that_ night—a star hurtling through the sky and into his arms, filling him to the brim with gold and heat—his heart speeds up and butterflies beats against the lining of his stomach. He shakes his head, tearing his gaze from the mirror and the man curled on his couch (Grantaire banishes thoughts of stardust spreading across his sheets and dusting his hair—he isn’t worthy of such a thing. It is enough to hold his star just once).

Grantaire moves into his kitchen; he sits down in one of his rickety chairs with a sigh. His head tips back. His eyes trace the cracks in the ceiling as his coffee brews. The only sound is the gurgle of the coffee maker and the whoosh of air passing from his lungs (if he strains his ears, Grantaire can hear the quiet huff of Enjolras’ breathing). And then his coffee is done and he moves into the living room once again, this time with a green mug clasped in his hands (this is how his days go now; around and around from bed to living room to kitchen and back again. On and on until his pain meds run out and he’s deemed well enough to return to his shitty job, if they’ll take him).

The couch is empty (Grantaire’s stomach constricts—he’s heard stories about fallen stars. That some settle down and slip into the life of a human with ease, like they were born for it. And there are others who chase the sky with outstretched hands, no ties strong enough to keep them from trying to reach the stars that call their name). The window in the living room is open and for a moment thinks that Enjolras has left to go chase bigger, brighter things.

No, but there Enjolras is, curled on Grantaire’s fire escape, _just_ out of view (Grantaire pretends that he wasn’t holding his breath). He turns, hair falling from its messy bun, eyes too blue to be human.

“Good morning, Grantaire.” (Grantaire shivers when Enjolras says his name. Always.) Grantaire walks up and leans against the window sill, mumbling his good mornings into his coffee.

“What are you doing out here?” he asks, quietly, eyes focused downward (it’s a funny thing; he can almost never look at Enjolras directly. As if he’s too bright to take it one glance). Enjolras looks back out across the city spread in front of him, letting a leg dangle off the edge of the fire escape and leaning against the railing.

“Looking at the stars.” (But Enjolras never stargazes—he _listens_.)

Grantaire’s hands wrap ever tighter around his cup of coffee. He swallows, once, and his eyes flick up to skim across the bare expanse of Enjolras’ back (Enjolras always wears as few clothes as he can get by with. His skin is pale and smooth, not a blemish, not a freckle. Strange. Foreign. Alien). After a moment they flick back down to the peeling paint on the window sill.

“What did they say?” Grantaire’s voice is soft, but still Enjolras’ shoulders tense and his fingers tighten their grip around the rail. There is silence stretching much farther than the few feet between them (Grantaire wonders if he’s pushed too far—Enjolras’ never mentioned about the fact that the stars speak to him, but Enjolras isn’t the first fallen star Grantaire’s met). Then Enjolras’ grip slackens and his shoulders slump forward. When he speaks next it is so quiet that Grantaire can barely catch it.

“They’re calling my name.” (The stars know his name and pluck at his ears until he drowns in their songs. He burns with it and the shine takes Grantaire’s breath away.)

Before Grantaire can reply, Enjolras stands, one clean line of movement that sends stardust drifting from his hair. Grantaire swallows, throat thick. He offers out his hand (the bandages are off, skin mottled and shiny and new). Enjolras reaches for it—Grantaire thinks back to that first night in the hospital, Enjolras’ hand a feather-light presence—but his eyes focus in on the burns. He jerks his hand back seconds before touching Grantaire’s skin, breath hissing from between his teeth.

Grantaire curls his hand to his chest, his lips mashing together (of course Enjolras wouldn’t want to touch _him,_ what was he even thinking—that time in the hospital room was just a fluke. It meant nothing. Grantaire is thousands of miles below his star, even now). Enjolras’ hand hovers in the air; his eyes flick across Grantaire’s face to his hands, then down his arms and back to his hands again. Grantaire looks away and clears his throat, reaching up to run an unsteady hand through his hair.

Enjolras’ hand falls to his side. “I—just—I’m—” He trips over his tongue, voice growing quitter with every word. He sighs, once and barely audible, before whispering, “ _Sorry, I’m so sorry.”_ He climbs through the window, pushing past Grantaire (Enjolras’ hand brushes against Grantaire’s—a pained wince and more hushed _I’m sorry’s_ that tumble from stuttering lips). He disappears into Grantaire’s bathroom, the door slamming shut with a thud. Grantaire stands at the window, hands pressing ever tighter around his mug of coffee (an hour later, he’s curled in his bedroom—he can hear the faint sound of the television through his paper thin walls. He doubts that Enjolras has noticed the cold cup of coffee sitting on the end table).

 

That’s how it goes for weeks; awkward, accidental touches and gazes that slip past each other, late nights and early mornings spent out on the fire escape, or days spent curled alone in bed with the bottle of painkillers held between shaking hands. Somehow they manage to lead separate lives, even in the smallness of Grantaire’s apartment (Grantaire avoids Enjolras through sheer will power alone—he thinks it should be easier than it is, since Enjolras’ shaking hand and crumpled face cut like a knife). Enjolras spends more and more time outside, eyes focused to the horizon. Sometimes Grantaire can feel Enjolras’ gaze burrowing into his back, but he doesn’t turn around to meet those blue eyes.

And then Enjolras doesn’t come inside at all, just sits out on the fire escape from dawn to dusk, hand drifting lazily out towards the sky (Grantaire can just barely hear the quiet rise and fall of Enjolras’ voice from his bedroom; it keeps him up at night, breath run ragged, mind turning over images of stardust smeared lips pressing into the junction of his hips).

And then one morning Grantaire wakes up to a note on the fridge and an empty fire escape.

 (Somewhere in the city, Enjolras walks, darting in and out of traffic. The stars are calling his name. He hears them echoing in his ears. But in the back of his mind curls _Grantaire_ and it pulls at the cavity of his chest. He does not look back.)


End file.
